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"Neglected," said Mary once more repeating the word, "you puzzle me more and more. I don't think poor Nello is a very spirited boy--but who neglects him? You must tell me what you mean. And about the foreigners

and the numbers? You are mysterious altogether. What do you mean ?—”

"It isn't that I mean much-but I can't hold my tongue-not any longer," said Miss Brown. "So far as

I can make out her gibberish, she holds to it as Master John is eight years of age; though if their numbers and ours is different, maybe she's making a mistake

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"You think he is very small for that age and babyish? I am very sorry you think so, Martha. I have had a feeling of the same kind; but you know he has been so delicate" "It's not that, Miss Mary, it's not his fault, the darling; but just you think of it. Eight years of age! and no schooling so much as thought of, nor no tutoring; and I don't know if he can tell his letters in English," said Miss Brown with a deep sigh.

Mary turned round so quickly that she twitched her locks out of her attendant's hands. " Schooling!" she said in a tone of dismay, and stared at Miss Brown, who shifted her position and recovered command of the long soft tresses, still brown and silky as ever, of Mary's hair.

"I don't know Master John's birthday," said that astute person intent upon her hairdressing, "but going on for nine is what he must be, for he was eight when he came, and that's seven months if it's a day. And if you consider, ma'am, all the learning that little gentlemen has to put into them! Look at the Squire: they tell me the languages he knows is wonderful, and the books he reads, a body can see

that for themselves. And if Master John don't begin, when is he to have the time to learn? Once a boy's in his 'teens," said Miss Brown, shaking her head with mournful meaning, "he's twenty before you know."

Mary had turned again into her former attitude. She had received the arrow thus cunningly sent, into the very centre of her being; and was quivering with the shock. She did not pay any particular attention to the rest of Miss Brown's monologue, having enough to think of. When one

has been pluming one's self, or at least has allowed one's self a feeling of satisfaction over a service rendered, a valuable act accomplished, it is appalling to have that merit of self-satisfaction blown away, and to see that in reality, though so much has been done, it is nothing in comparison with what ought to be done; schooling, tutoring, education in short. How was it she had never thought of it before? When she had taken this trust which John had put into her hands, had she not virtually promised to train the children. for the position they must hereafter hold, to make man and woman of them, fit for man's and woman's duties? They could not be children for ever; even, as Mary with the quick instinct of alarm perceived, they were already growing towards that condition, developing out of their childhood. A thrill of consternation ran over her. How was she to manage this? Miss Brown had spoken of Nello only, but Lilias was her own successor, the future Miss Musgrave, the princess of the old house. She could not let her grow up a rustic in the old hall, where she had taken root so naturally. What was she to do? Mary was not poor, for she had few desires, and what she needed Iwas within her reach. But she was not rich enough for the expenses of education; and she could not go to her father about the needs of the children whom he did not acknowledge. She had already made her calculations on the subject of clothing them, and had discovered that by a

little self-denial she might manage to do that out of her own allowance; but to educate them? that was beyond her power. She thought of nothing else all the evening long, pondering it as she sat at table with her father, who was absorbed in the study of some new books of a kindred type to his own. How grateful she was to him for being so absorbed and inattentive! Thus he did not find out that she was pre-occupied and unobservant too.

Mr. Pennithorne appeared on one of his usual visits next morning while she was still full of this matter. For the more she thought of it, the more dark her way seemed before her. It might be possible to push Nello forward in his Latin and Greek, and help him to something like an education. But Lilias! The means of Mary's own education had been simple. She was motherless, and there had been no one to take thought for her; and unlimited reading, and some music lessons from the old organist had been all her preparation for the position of Princess Royal. With this Mary had not done badly to the external eye, but within herself she had often felt her deficiencies. Could she do no better, she asked herself, for her successor ? And the old organist was dead, carrying such simple lore as he had to regions where it was unavailable for another Miss Musgrave. The music of the parish was conducted now sometimes by Mrs. Pennithorne's feeble playing, sometimes by the rough tunes of a village amateur; for the parish was not rich, and its ear was not keen. But Lilias! Mary brooded till her head ached; and she was glad beyond measure to see Mr. Pennithorne coming slowly along the road. She could see him almost from the moment his spare figure turned the corner from the village; the outline and movement of him was so familiar to her, as he grew upon the quiet distance drawing nearer and nearer. It was seldom that she anticipated his approach with so much satisfaction. Not that Mr. Pennithorne,

good man, was likely to invent an outlet out of a difficulty, but he was the only person to whom she could talk with absolute freedom upon this subject, and to put it forth in audible words, and set it thus in order to her own ear and mind was always some advantage. How like Mr. Pen it was to come on so quietly step after step, while she was waiting impatient for him! not a step quicker than usual, no swing of more rapid motion in the droop of his long coat. Why should he quicken his steps? She laughed to herself at her own childish impatience. Ought he not to have divined that she wanted him urgently after all these years? Mary had gone into the hall, the children being absent on their daily walk. They were so much in her thoughts that she was glad to get them out of her sight for the moment and thus relieve the air which rustled and whispered with them. She went out to meet the slowly approaching counsellor. It was early summer by this time, and all was green and fair, if still somewhat cold in its greenness to a southern eye. The sunshine was blazing over the lake, just approaching noon, and the sky was keenly blue, so clear that the pleasure of it was almost a pain, where the green shoulder of the hill stood against it in high relief. It was seldom that Mary was at leisure so early, and very seldom that in the morning when both were busy she should have a visit from Mr. Pen. As she made a few steps down the slope that led from the hall door, to meet him, the sunshine caught her full streaming from behind the corner of the house. It caught in her hair, and shone in it, showing its unimpaired gloss and brightness. Mr. Pennithorne was dazzled by it as he came up, and asked himself if she was superior to time as to most things else, and after all those years, was young as well as lovely still?

"I am very glad to see you," she said, holding out her hand. "I just wanted you; it is some good fairy that has sent you so early to-day."

His face brightened up with an answering gleam; or was it only the sun that had got hold of him too, and woke reflections in his middle-aged eyes? "I am very happy to have come when you wanted me," he said, his eyelids growing moist with pleasure. He went in to the hall, where all was comparative dusk after that brilliant shining of the noon, and sat down on the stool which was Martuccia's usual place. "Whatever you want, Miss Mary, here I am," her faithful servant said.

"It is about the children. What am I to do with the children, Mr. Pen? I have been so negligent and foolish; thinking all was right when I had them safe, and was allowed to keep them. Fancy, it was Martha Brown who brought me to my senses, who had more perception than I had

"

"What about the children? they are very well off and very happy, as they may well be

"But their education, Mr. Pen!" "Ah!" he said, with a slight catching of his breath, which conveyed a consolation to her-as showing that to him, too, this idea was new. Then he added, "Yes, indeed, Miss Mary, you are quite right as you always are. It is time that was thought of, perhaps ; but, on the other hand, there is no time lost."

"No, not much lost," she said with a little relief; "but what am I to do? My father takes no notice of them. I am not-rich-how am I to do justice to them? There is LiliasI am sure the child is clever and full of power-I should not like her to be as uneducated as I am."

"If she does half as well-if she is half what you are-do not hurt my feelings by speaking so," said Mr. Pen, pathetically. "You!-but we will make no comparisons."

"I cannot be so kind to myself as you are to me," she said, smiling. "How often have I been put to the blush for the little I know; but who is to teach the children? I could not

do it, even if I had the knowledge -and Nello; I have not the money either; I am at my wits' end."

Mr. Pen sat by her very sympathetically and heard all her difficulties. He was not very clever about advising, seeing that it was generally from her that he took advice, instead of giving it. But he listened, and did not see his way out of it, which of itself was a comfort to Mary. If he had been clever, and had struck out a new idea at once, it is doubtful whether she would have liked it half so well. She went into the whole question, and eased her mind at least. What was she to do? Mr. Pen shook his head. He was quite ready to take Nello, and teach him all he remembered after a life spent in rural forgetfulness, of Latin and Greek; but Lilias! and Lilias was the most urgent as being the eldest. There was no school within reach, and a governess as Mr. Pen suggested with a little trembling -a governess! where could Mary put her, what could she do with her? It seemed hopeless to think of that.

"I don't know what you will think of what I am going to say-but there is Randolph, Miss Mary; he is a family man himself. I suppose-of coursehe knows about the children?"

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'Randolph," said Mary faltering; "Mr. Pen, you know what Randolph is as well as I do."

"People change," said Mr. Pen, evasively. "It is not for me to say anything; but perhaps he ought to know."

"Per

"He has never taken any interest in the house; he has never cared to be-one of us," said Mary. haps because he was brought up away from us. You know all about it. When he came back-when he was with you and poor John- You know him as well as I do," she concluded abruptly. "I don't see what help we could have from him."

"He is a family man himself," said the vicar. "When children come they bring new feelings; they open the heart. He was not like you—or poor John; but he was like a great many

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direction, yet confused and excited in her mental being by the introduction of a new element. Randolph Musgrave, though her brother, was less known to Mary than he was to the tutor who had travelled and lived with him in the interval which had formed his nearest approach to his own family. He had been brought up by an uncle on the mother's side who did not love the Musgraves, and had succeeded to the family living belonging to that race, and lived now, as he had been brought up, in an atmosphere quite different from that which belonged to his nominal home in the north. Except now and then, in a holiday visit, Randolph had scarcely spent any portion of his life at Penninghame, except the short period just before, and for a little time after, his university career, when he shared with his brother John the special instructions of Mr. Pennithorne. The two young men had worked together then, or made believe to work, and they had travelled together; but being of very different dispositions, and brought up in ways curiously unlike, they had not been made into cordial friends by this period of semiartificial union. Randolph had been trained to entertain but a small opinion of anything at Penninghame, and he had followed up his training. And when Penninghame became public property, and John and all his affairs and peculiarities were discussed in the newspapers, the younger son did something very like the Scriptural injunction- shaking the dust from off his feet as he departed. went away after some painful scenes with his father. It was not the old Squire's fault that his eldest son had become in the eyes of the world a criminal; but Randolph was as bitter at the ignominy brought upon his name as if it had been a family contrivance to annoy and distress him, and had gone away vowing that never again would he have anything to do with his paternal home. There had been a long gap in their relations after that, but at his marriage there had been a kind of

He

reconciliation, enough to give a decorous aspect to his relations with his "people." He had brought his bride to his father's house, and since then he had written, as Mary said, now and then, once or twice in the year, to inquire after his father's health. This was not much, but it saved appearances, and prevented the open scandal of a family quarrel. But Mary, who replied punctiliously to these questions, did not see the need of making a further intimation to him of anything that affected the family. For one thing, it did not occur to her. What had he to do with John's children? and if Mary had thought of any special interest he had in the matter, it is to be feared this would have closed more firmly, not opened her mouth. But she had not so much as thought on the subject. She had written her periodical letter announcing that her father was pretty well; that he had finished his Monograph, and desired her to send Randolph a copy, which he would receive by book-post; that she hoped Mrs. Randolph and the boy were quite well; and that she remained his affectionate sister. All was perfectly matter-offact except that adjective; for there was no affection between them.

And

she would no more have thought of informing him of any private event in her own history, or of looking to him for sympathy, than she would have stopped a beggar on the road to communicate her good or evil fortune. She could not even understand why the Vicar had suggested such a thing to her. But the idea of Randolph suggested a new element and new complications. What had he to do with the family? He had voluntarily withdrawn himself from it. It vexed her to be reminded that it was not possible to take away from Randolph some right to interfere, to thrust in his opinion if he chose to exercise itto make inquiries that would be annoying and disagreeable. This gave Miss Musgrave a great deal of annoyance, and she felt angry with Mr. Pennithorne, for was it not his fault?

Next morning, however, a very extraordinary incident occurred. She had sent Lilias and Nello to the Vicarage to get their first lesson, and had waited for them in the hall, almost as much excited as they were, to hear the result. And the account of it had been of the greatest interest to Mary. She was going through that experience common to parents, which makes the baby-lessons, the child's first steps in literature, the very pothooks and sums, all of vital importance to the looker-on. The children had of course been much excited by this new

event in their life. They had come in breathless with the story they had to tell. "Then he made me read out of all the books," said Lilias, her dark eyes shining; "but Nello, because he was so little, one book was enough for him."

"But it was not a girl's book," said Nello; "it was only for Johnnie and me."

"And I looked in it," said his sister; "it was all mixed with Italian-such funny Italian: instead of padre it was put payter-Mr. Pen called it so. But it would not do for Nello, when we go back, to say his Italian like that. Even Martuccia would laugh, and Martuccia is not educated."

"It was Latin," said Nello, "Mr. Pen said so. He said girls didn't want Latin. Girls learn to dance and sing; but I-and Johnnie

"Will Mr. Pen teach me to dance and sing, Mary?" said Lilias, with a grave face.

"And me, I wrote a copy," said Nello, indifferent to the interruption; "look!" and he held up fingers covered with ink. "You cannot read it yet, but you will soon be able to read it, Mr. Pen says. And then I will write

you a letter, Mary."

"It would be better to write letters to some one far off," said Lilias, half scornful of his want of information. "You can talk to Mary, Nello. It is to far-off people that one makes letters."

"We have nobody that is far off,"

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